Blind

I put something

Where it doesn’t

Belong; the

“Something” and

“Somewhere”

Keep changing

So does belonging

As I forget

Whatever was

Worth recalling

Lost to time and

Quiet fatigue

Let me lie down

To dream

I can’t seem to

Forget the

Never ending, relentless

List, clawing

Imagination far from

My psyche

Rude tides pull me

Away from myself

Sitting across

The man who only

Claims paternity

When there’s a

Benefit to be had

Blinder by the day

Yet visible to me

Bed bugs crawl

Up and down

Clothes, bag, arms

Riddled with bites

Red and scabby

Pitiable only because

No more empathy

Can be found

Within my heart

Fraud! I call myself

Wisdom, experience,

Education - a farce

How dare I climb!

Such audacity

To want to be

Someone other than

His daughter

Filling out

Old age pension forms

He can’t really see

Words anymore

Together, we joke

Fake banter in

Lieu of love

Where is the

Beauty in this

I cannot find it

It must belong to

Somewhere else

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Just a little note:

Bedbugs are a natural part of life, and they can happen to anyone in any socioeconomic status. There is no shame in contracting them, and no shame in asking for help. The grief being described in my poem is centred around the soul rending loss of the person you could have been if someone in the position of parent conducted themselves as such, and the incalculable weight of realizing a person’s place in the world would be easier for you if they were dead versus alive. This is the pitiable. The trials and tribulations of bedbugs are about commiseration and problem solving. (I recommend throwing a little humour in there to lighten the load).